


Feel You On The Breeze

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, It Was A Dark And Stormy Night, M/M, Magical Chris Argent, Masturbation in Shower, Pining Stiles Stilinski, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Werewolf Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: When Stiles followed the pull in his gut to track down his soulmate, it wasn't meant to end up with him breaking down in a storm, rolling down a slope in the preserve, and spraining his ankle. Still, at least his rescuer and his werewolf mate are nice to look at. More than nice.Nigh irresistible in fact.Stiles might have a slight problem here.Fuck.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Chris Argent/Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 123
Kudos: 1036
Collections: Steter Discord Valentine's Exchange 2021





	Feel You On The Breeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Whreflections](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/gifts).



> This is my contribution to the discord Valentine's day exchange - for whreflection's prompt  
> "Preferably stetopher rather than just steter. I love happy things, with some level of good!Peter, even if he's like, chaotic neutral lol, I love fantasy AUs, full shift werewolves, magic, and many other things- there can be angst, but there needs to always be a happy ending."  
> I hope this fits the bill!

When Stiles’s jeep gives out and refuses to make anything other than a mean-spirited little ticking noise when he turns the key, he lets out a groan and curses past Stiles, who was an idiot for ignoring the strange noises his engine’s been making.

He pops the hood, hoping against hope it’s a loose lead or something simple, but luck’s not on his side and it’s nothing he can immediately spot. A crack of thunder overhead startles him enough that his head whips up and he cracks his skull fair on the sharp metal corner of the hood. “Motherfucker!” he hisses, just as the rain starts pelting down.

He scrambles back inside the jeep and considers his options. He pulls his phone out but is unsurprised to find he has no bars—reception’s patchy this far into the preserve. Stiles is far off the beaten track, and he couldn’t even tell you why he drove out this way, except that's a lie. He drove out this way because there was a _pull_ , a need to come here. And Stiles knows what that means, okay? He’s seen all the romantic films and read the stories, has done his research on soul bonds while waiting for his own to come to life. He wasn’t going to ignore that mystical, irresistible pull and miss out on meeting his soulmate, even if at least part of him will be skeptical until he actually meets them.

He’d allowed himself to imagine a romantic meeting, finding his soulmate and strolling hand in hand in sunlight-dappled woods, soulmark fresh on his skin after they’d touched skin to skin for the first time. What he hadn’t accounted for was his jeep dying and the torrential rain rolling in, turning his pretty woodland fantasy into something from a horror film and making the trees look more like eldritch horrors that are about to reach out with claw-stick fingers and drag him to his death.

Okay, maybe he’s being a touch dramatic, but he’s stuck here and his head hurts and it’s raining and his overriding worry right now is that he has two choices—walk back to town or wait here—and what if he chooses the wrong one and misses meeting his mate?

Logically he knows it’s unlikely—if he follows his gut, they’ll be drawn together, that’s how this usually works—but that’s in _normal_ cases, and Stiles has never felt normal, not about this, even though he couldn’t tell you why, exactly. But it's a fact that most of his friends have met their soulmates or at least felt something to indicate they exist, whereas he’s twenty three and has never had so much as a tingle up his spine to indicate there’s someone who’s his.

So of course when he’d felt that compelling tug in his gut late this afternoon, the one urging him to head out into the depths of the preserve, he hadn’t wanted to miss his chance, so he’d decided to ignore the fact his jeep was already struggling and driven there, ready for whatever fate had in store for him—which turned out to be a thunderstorm and a breakdown, because fate sucks balls.

He checks his phone signal—still nothing. He sighs and peers out into the sheeting rain. Past him was a moron for not getting his engine checked out, which means present him is about to become a wet moron, because the more he thinks about just sitting tight, the more his gut squirms and his instincts scream at him to move. With one last look at his phone—still nothing—he locks the jeep and starts to trudge along the side of the road.

He gets about twenty feet before he finds himself looking speculatively at the trees. They're still creepy as fuck but the rain’s settled in, and hopefully they’ll provide at least some cover from the wet. Another thunderclap loud enough to make him jump decides him. He works his way into the treeline so that he has some shelter, and keeps walking while his mind whirls and he questions his decision.

Waiting in the car would have been the sensible thing to do. He would have been dry and someone would have come along eventually, or he could have waited till it stopped raining and walked back to where there was phone reception. But despite that being the sensible thing to do, here he is, squelching along in leaf litter in lengthening shadows in an area of the preserve that he doesn't know very well, all because he’s desperate for a mark on his wrist.

No, that's not quite true.

He doesn’t want the mark, _per se_. What he yearns for is what it signifies. He wants to belong to someone, to be their special person, their soulmate. He wants to meet his perfect match, have someone kiss him and tell him he’s precious, and he wants to know they mean it.

And that's worth walking in the rain for.

A trickle of icy water directly down the back of his collar pulls him from his thoughts and makes him squawk, and he sees that he’s meandered further into the woods and the road is nowhere in sight. He shudders, draws up his shoulders against the cold bite of the wind, and keeps forging forward, trying to ignore the fact that it's almost dark and instead concentrating on that tugging in his gut that tells him to keep going.

After all this, he thinks, his soulmate had better turn up.

* * *

Stiles is sure he’s been walking for hours, but a glance at his phone tells him it's been twenty minutes. That can’t be right. He’s obviously slipped into a parallel dimension where everything is wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey, that’s the only explanation.

He stops on the crest of a hill, hands on his knees and panting from the climb, and peers into the darkness, admitting to himself for the first time that he’s utterly lost. He straightens up and runs a hand through his dripping hair, muttering “ _Fuck,_ ” to see if that makes him feel better. He’s absolutely not expecting a reply.

“You lost, kid?”

He spins on his heel looking for the source of the voice, and it’s that, combined with the slippery leaves underfoot and his precarious position at the top of the slope, that’s his undoing. He can feel himself tipping backwards but is helpless to stop the fall, and then he’s sliding and rolling down the hill, banging against rocks and tree branches along the way until he finally stops when he hits a tree trunk with a solid thunk. There’s a bright flare of pain in his ankle that makes him cry out, and he lays there with his heart thundering in his chest while his body tries to cope with the adrenaline rush of the fall.

He closes his eyes just for a second, and when he opens them his vision is filled with bright blue eyes, a salt and pepper beard on a handsome face, and a furrowed brow. “Shit, kid, you okay?” the stranger asks.

Stiles drags himself up so his back is leaning against the tree and the stranger crouches next to him. Even in the dark Stiles can make out a white singlet under a flannel shirt, and the man’s close enough that Stiles can see droplets of rain dripping from stray locks of hair, the barest hint of curls on the nape of the man's neck just adding to his extraordinary attractiveness.

Stiles never knew he had a thing for older men until now, and his heart thunders in his chest. Is this his soulmate? Is this who he came looking for? He wonders if there’s a polite way to ask if the man will hold hands, just to check.

“Hi. I—uh, I broke down,” he says, after deciding that ‘ _I was driving in the rain looking for my soulmate, are you him?’_ does in fact sound desperate and creepy, and if hot stranger _is_ his mate he doesn’t want to freak him out.

The man raises his eyebrows. “That so?”

“Uh huh.” Stiles nods, and the man sighs and runs a hand through his hair. His cuff slips back and the flicker of hope Stiles had been nursing is quickly doused when he spots a dark mark on the man’s wrist. The man is already matched. Stiles does his best to swallow his disappointment that this isn’t his soulmate after all, just a helpful stranger who’s going to help Stiles get out of these woods.

The man’s brows furrow further. “Kid, you’re miles out of town. Wanna tell me why you were out driving in a storm, and why you're in my woods?”

“I’m not a kid,” Stiles says. “I’m twenty three. And I was…” He hesitates, and decides fuck it. “I was looking for my soulmate. I got that gut feeling they say you get, that urge, and I followed it here.”

The man whistles. “That’s some dedication, coming out in this weather.”

“Yeah, well. What else was I gonna do, ignore it? You only get one soulmate. But I guess whoever it is, they’re smarter than me, and bailed when the rain started.” He’s disappointed, but it's not _completely_ unheard of for there to be a false start or a missed connection. His own father missed his mother the first time before they finally got together, so weirdness around soulmates kinda runs in the family. It doesn’t mean all hope is lost.

The man blows out a long breath and stands. “Come on, let’s get you out of the rain.”

Stiles struggles to his feet, but as soon as he puts any weight on his ankle a sharp pain shoots up his leg and he yelps as he tries not to fall. Firm hands steady him at his waist, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“You’ve done some damage,” the man says, frowning and also not letting go, and why isn’t he letting go? Not that Stiles would normally mind being pressed against a gorgeous stranger, but this particular stranger belongs to someone else and Stiles isn’t about that, so he steps back and out of the man's grip. It’s a mistake, because as soon as the man stops holding him steady, Stiles crumples to the ground again.

The man sighs. “Fine. We’re doing this the old fashioned way,” he says and then, before he can blink, Stiles finds himself scooped up and thrown over the man’s broad, muscled shoulders. “Name’s Chris, by the way,” the man says, striding forward through the trees, and Stiles is left to try and cope with what is simultaneously the most humiliating and erotic experience of his short life as he gets to watch the flex of Chris’s ass and thighs while being carried like a sack of potatoes.

“Stiles,” he manages to get out.

“Nice to meet you Stiles,” Chris says, barely out of breath, covering the ground in long, sure steps. “House isn’t far from here.”

“You live out here?”

“My partner likes to be close to nature,” Chris says. Stiles tries to imagine Chris's partner, probably some tiny, gorgeous wide-eyed little pixie of a thing that Chris adores, and feels an unexpected stab of jealousy. Stiles shoves it down. He has no right to feel _anything_ about Chris, because the man is gorgeous, but Stiles has literally just met him, and also, _he’s taken._

“Is she a magic user? I know they like to be close to nature,” Stiles says, trying to be polite.

Chris laughs loudly, his whole body shaking with it. “Nope. He’s a wolf, and the preserve’s his territory. Well, ours.”

So that's what Chris meant by ‘his’ woods. “I didn’t know it was anyone’s territory. He won’t be mad at me for trespassing?”

Chris shrugs. “He’ll probably snarl and spit a little, but that’s just because he’s an asshole. You’re fine. The protective spells let you in, so we know you’re no danger.”

“Protective spells?” Despite no sign of a soulmate, the night’s getting more and more interesting. “So he _is_ magic?”

“Nope. I am. Druid,” Chris says as he comes to a halt. “Nobody gets in this part of the preserve unless my protections let them in. Guess that means you’re special.” They arrive at an honest-to-god log cabin, and Chris sets Stiles down on a chair that's sitting on the cabin porch and opens the door before scooping him up bridal style and carrying him over the threshold. “Honey, I’m home!”

There’s the click of claws on floorboards, and a massive black wolf rounds the corner of the living room. Its muzzle draws back revealing gleaming fangs and it lets out a low snarl, and Stiles can't quite contain the squeak that he lets out.

Chris just chuckles. “Told you he’s an asshole. Peter, put the wolf away. This is Stiles, he’s the one that tripped the alerts. He got lost, was out here looking for his soulmate.” He waggles his eyebrows for some reason.

The wolf yips and vanishes around the corner. Chris sets Stiles down in an armchair, and Stiles slumps into the softness. His ankle hurts like a bitch and he's aware he has wet leaves and dirt all over him, but he figures if Chris doesn’t mind mud on his furniture, he’s not going to mention it. Instead he says, “Thanks for the rescue.”

Chris rewards him with a dazzling smile, one that would make Stiles go weak at the knees if he wasn’t already sitting, and says, “No problem.”

“Not gonna lie,” Stiles says. “I’m glad it’s you that found me. If it had been Peter looking like that, I may legitimately have passed out from sheer terror. He’s freaking massive.”

“I keep telling Christopher that my size is one of my better features,” a voice says from the doorway. “Hello, Stiles.” The man, Peter, purrs out Stiles's name, says it like it’s a prayer, and a shiver runs through Stiles despite himself. Peter’s wearing loose sweats and nothing else, and his whole demeanor _screams_ werewolf— the posture, the graceful way he moves, the way his lip curls into a smirk that’s almost a snarl. It does nothing to detract from his sheer hotness.

Stiles had thought Chris was unfairly handsome, but Peter takes it to a whole other level. His hair is dark and carefully styled to look scruffy, his eyes are bright, and his jaw is smooth and straight with the merest scraping of perfectly groomed stubble. He’s shorter than Chris, just barely, but more solidly built, and his chest is all tanned bare skin and muscles and silky-looking hair that Stiles wants to bury his face in.

Except he can’t of course, because they’re a couple.

“Um, pleased to meet you,” he says and wills his dick, which is taking a sudden and unwelcome interest in the hot body in front of him, to stay the fuck out of this. They’re _taken._

His dick ignores him and continues to perk up.

Peter walks over and bypasses Stiles completely, drawing Chris to his feet and then running his hands up under the hem of Chris’s shirt and sliding it down his shoulders, then peeling off the soaked singlet, which means now Stiles is treated to the sight of _two_ hard, muscled bodies—which does nothing to stem his unwelcome lust because _damn_ , Chris is built. The intricate swirls of dark blue ink tattooed over one side of his chest has Stiles almost swallowing his tongue as he resists the urge to touch and kiss and lick.

“You’re soaked, sweetheart,” Peter says, one hand tracing over Chris’s jawline in an affectionate gesture that’s intimate enough that Stiles feels like he should look away, or perhaps leave the room.

Chris gives Peter a soft smile and shrugs. “I’ll dry off in a minute. I’m more worried about Stiles. He’s chilled through and injured to boot.”

Peter glances over and his mouth downturns. “Christopher’s right. You need a hot shower and some dry clothes. You’re shivering.”

He is, Stiles realizes. “Just some dry clothes will be fine,” he says. He’d actually kill for a shower, but he’s honestly not sure he can take the thought of being in the same tiled space where these two are naked every day. He shakes his head to chase the thought away—what is _wrong_ with him tonight? He’d normally never look twice at someone who’s mated, but for some reason he’s fixating and he can’t seem to stop.

“Nope. Shower,” Chris says firmly. He exchanges a look with Peter before asking, “Can you stand?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, then puts his feet carefully on the floor, testing his ankle. It still throbs painfully, so he makes a back-and-forth gesture with his hand. “Kind of?” he says, and shoves down the ridiculous hope that Chris will carry him again.

What the hell is going on with his brain—and more pressingly, his dick? He crosses his legs to try and hide his erection and runs a hand over his skull to check he hasn’t hit his head. Perhaps he’s passed out on the ground in the preserve, dying slowly while he lives out some weird fantasy. Of course, if this was a fantasy he wouldn't have a wet ass and a fucked up ankle, but everything else is prime jerk-off fodder. His dick throbs. Peter raises an amused eyebrow and Stiles has a sudden, sinking, certainty that Peter can smell exactly how rapidly his arousal is climbing and is about to call him on it.

Peter doesn’t mention it though, instead saying, “Stay there while Christopher fetches you one of his rather excellent painkillers, and I’ll find you something to wear.” He turns to Chris. “Mine rather than yours I think, we’re closer in size.”

The corner of Chris’s mouth quirks up at that for some reason, and he says, “Uh huh. Size, That’s the reason.”

Both of them leave the room, Chris heading towards the kitchen and Peter presumably to the bedroom, and Stiles waits and shivers and tries not to miss them. He’s not very successful. He’s going to blame his uncharacteristic lusting on the knock to his head, he decides, because why the hell else is he acting like a schoolboy with a crush?

Two crushes, but whatever.

Chris is back first with a shot glass full of dark liquid that he sets on the side table where Stiles can reach it. “That’ll dull the pain.” Stiles knocks it back. It tastes like cold tea, but the effects are almost instant. A warmth spreads through his body and the bright hot throbbing in his ankle fades to almost nothing.

Peter returns a minute later and says, “Your dry clothes are in the bathroom. Follow me.” Stiles stands gingerly, but his ankle barely twinges and he lets out a sigh of relief. Peter leads the way and Chris shadows closely behind, and it makes all sorts of completely inappropriate fantasies about being pinned between them flash through Stiles’s brain. He does his best to ignore them.

Peter opens the bathroom door for him and then says with a smirk, “Come on Christopher. The boy doesn’t need an audience, and someone has to peel you out of those wet jeans. I volunteer as tribute.”

Chris chuckles, deep and rich, and Peter sets his hand on the small of Chris’s back, steering him away from the bathroom and leaving Stiles alone.

* * *

The water pressure’s amazing and Stiles hums his appreciation when the hot spray hits his neck and shoulders, easing the tension there. As the heat soaks into his skin he debates whether it would be rude to help himself to the body wash he sees there, but then he figures that hey, they offered him the use of the shower, and the two normally go hand in hand, right?

He squirts a handful of the stuff into his palm and starts to rub it over his tired limbs, catching the slightest hint of citrus. Lemongrass, maybe. Whatever it is, he likes it. It reminds him of Chris, of wet neck-nape curls in salt and pepper hair. He considers the man—the long, lithe body, the dazzling smile, the way he’d swung Stiles over his shoulder so easily. He’s a wet dream all wrapped up in rugged-hot.

And as for Peter—there’s _another_ fantasy Stiles didn’t know he had come to life—the smirk, the confidence, the sinfully hot body, that fucking _neck_ that makes Stiles want to lick it. Plus, the sheer sexual energy that rolls off the man ought to be illegal—or perhaps it should be bottled and sold. One of the two, anyway.

Stiles’s hand creeps unbidden to his cock and before he knows it he’s stroking himself slowly while he imagines Peter peeling Chris out of those criminally well-fitted jeans, the two of them touching each other and kissing, which leads to him imagining Chris and Peter both in here with _him_ , all of them wet and naked, four strong hands running over his back and ass, skating across his abs. He whimpers loudly as his cock throbs urgently in his fist. Two more strokes, a mental image of Peter’s dangerous smirk as he runs a hand up Stiles’s thigh, and that's it, he’s done. He’s unable to hold back the groan as his cock pulses and his release spills over his fingers. He doesn’t think he’s ever come so hard in his life and he slumps back against the wall panting, enjoying the pleasant buzz that he has going on and pointedly ignoring the tendrils of guilt squirming their way into his belly.

He’s still leaning against the tiles when there’s a sharp knock on the door. “Stiles?” Peter says. “You sound hurt. Do I need to come in?”

“No!” Stiles squawks, heart racing. He glances down and sees the last of his come swirling down the drain, along with any dignity he might have possessed.

What the _hell_ is wrong with him? His actual soulmate’s finally somewhere close and what does Stiles do? He jerks off to a fantasy about a mated pair, _in their own shower._ The post orgasmic high he was riding dwindles rapidly, but he manages to keep his voice steady as he rinses his hand and his cock, adding more body wash to get rid of any lingering scents. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?” Peter asks.

“I banged my ankle that’s all,” he says.

Peter hums and Stiles wonders if Peter's caught the scent of what he’s been doing, but then he says, “Christopher is cooking and he wants to know how you take your steak.”

That’s not what he expected to hear. “Uh, rare?”

“The only acceptable answer,” Peter says. “Dinner’s ready when you are.”

“Um, thanks,” Stiles says turning the water off, uncomfortably aware that there's nothing but a strip of wood and a couple of hinges between his nudity and the man he wants to climb like a tree—even if he never would, because said man has a life partner and there are lines Stiles won’t cross.

Although he’s forcibly reminded, looking at his softening cock, that those lines can apparently be blurred.

“I’ll be out in a minute." He grabs a towel and starts to dry himself. He hears retreating footsteps and breathes a little easier, and tries to get a grip. He came out to find his soulmate but obviously it’s a bust, so he’s going to eat his dinner (because apparently he’s staying for dinner), and then ask if either Peter or Chris has a working phone, and then he’s going to get his dad to come pick him up so he can go home and forget this whole disaster of an evening. He’ll pick the jeep up tomorrow, get someone to come look at it.

 _Chris looks like he’d be good with his hands,_ his traitorous mind whispers, and then Stiles has to take a minute to banish the mental image of Chris bent over with his head in the guts of the jeep, those gorgeous long legs and perfect ass on display.

No. He’s not going to play that game.

He hangs the damp towel on the rail because he’s not a heathen, and slips into Peter's clothes. The shirt gapes at his collarbones and swims on him a little, because Peter has actual muscles whereas Stiles only has good intentions of one day hitting the gym, but the sweatpants are a better fit than he’d anticipated. He runs his hands through his hair, calls it good, and then wanders out towards the kitchen.

He pauses in the doorway when he hears snatches of hushed conversation.

“ —saying we let the kid catch a breath before you scare him away,” Chris growls.

“And _I’m_ saying he needs to know. Can't you see how he's—” Peter’s mouth snaps shut, and he spins on his heel mid-sentence. “There you are. Have a seat.” He’s put a shirt on, Stiles is relieved to see.

Chris is standing at the stove, having changed into a plain tee that stretches across the breadth of his shoulders and another pair of ass-hugging jeans. Stiles does his best not to stare. Chris nods at another shot glass on the counter, filled with something green this time. “Drink,” he says.

Stiles eyes the glass. “I feel like I’m Alice in Wonderland.”

Chris’s throaty laugh rolls over Stiles like a warm breeze, and he can’t help liking it. “Peter said you banged your ankle again. The other draught took the pain, but this’ll heal the injury permanently.”

“Really?” Stiles sits on the tall kitchen stool, takes the glass and drinks it, and this one’s bitter enough that he pulls a face.

Peter laughs. “There’s nothing to be done about the terrible taste, but they really are effective,” he says and sure enough, Stiles’s ankle is settling, the tightness around the joint diminishing. He rolls it around experimentally, and is delighted to find that it feels completely normal.

”Wow,” he breathes out. “That's incredible.”

“Christopher has quite the talent,” Peter says, his pride obvious. “He’s just been appointed a member of the druid council.”

Chris shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but he gives Peter a pleased smile before turning back to the steaks.

“Can I help with anything?” Stiles asks.

“Absolutely not,” Peter says firmly. “ _Someone_ doesn’t like to share his kitchen space.”

“That’s because _someone else_ makes a mess and can’t cook for shit,” Chris says. His attention never leaves the steaks, but his arm shoots out and he effortlessly catches the shot glass Peter just pegged at him. “I tell it like I see it, baby.”

“I have other skills,” Peter says loftily.

“Yeah, you do,” Chris says, and his tone leaves no doubt as to what those talents are. Peter smirks and walks over to stand next to Chris and press a kiss to his shoulder.

These two are fucking ridiculous, and they’re ridiculously in love, and Stiles is hit with a wave of longing. He hopes he gets to have this one day, even if he's missed his chance today. He doesn’t quite manage to hold back a sigh, but he doesn’t think they notice.

Peter detaches himself from Chris’s side and leads Stiles through to the kitchen table, which is set for three. Stiles sits down and Peter joins him after diverting to the fridge and grabbing three beers. He hands one to Stiles. It’s a brand he’s never heard of and Peter must catch his dubious look because he says, “Chris is right to ban me from the kitchen, but I do have good taste in beer. Try it.”

Stiles takes a swallow, eager to chase away the taste of the green shit, and Peter’s right, it’s a good beer— really good, and Stiles feels like if anyone’s earned a beer tonight, it’s him. He takes a second, longer swallow, and when he lowers the bottle, it's to find Peter’s eyes lingering on his throat. He ducks his head so he can pretend he didn’t notice. _Taken, taken, taken,_ he chants to himself, and when he chances another look Peter’s attention is on Chris. “Need a hand with the plates, sweetheart?”

“Please,” Chris says. Peter prowls over to the counter, all sinuous grace and sex, and when he sets a plate in front of Stiles it’s all he can do to stop himself from grabbing at Peter’s wrist, running a hand over that veined forearm just to feel the play of the muscles under his fingertips, regardless of the soulmark he sees there.

He drinks his beer instead, determined to stick to permissible pleasures, then grabs his knife and cuts off a piece of steak. It's delicious, and he can’t help the moan that he lets out as the meat all but melts in his mouth.

Chris grins in a way that makes his eyes crinkle and Stiles’s heart flutter. “Good?”

Stiles flushes and nods and then looks away, because as if Chris being tall and tan and unfairly gorgeous wasn’t enough, he’s not only capable of carrying a grown man through the woods like he weighs nothing and performing complex magic, he also cooks a mean steak. Stiles has never wished so fervently that he didn’t have a competence kink a mile wide. His dick throbs and Stiles tries to ignore it, doing his best not to think about how good Chris’s hands had felt wrapped around his waist in the woods.

Stiles would swear he can _feel_ the heat and magic rolling off Chris, but that might just be his own desire, inexplicable and unwelcome, talking. That’s what it is, he decides—he’s projecting. He came out expecting to find a soulmate and instead he found Chris and Peter, and his brain has gotten a wire crossed somewhere, making him confused.

He turns his attention back to his meal, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on his plate. He just has to get through dinner without saying or doing something inappropriate, like, say, giving in to the sudden urge to spread himself naked across the table and beg both men to take him however they want.

Not that they _would_ want, Stiles reminds himself. Not with what they already have.

“So, your soulmate,” Peter says, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Was this the first time you’ve felt them?”

When Stiles looks up Peter’s watching him, elbows resting on the table and hands clasped together, and there’s an intensity to his gaze that Stiles can’t quite fathom. Peter raises an eyebrow, and Stiles realizes he’s waiting for a reply.

“Uh, yeah. Never so much as a flicker before today and then, _bang_. I couldn’t have stayed away if I tried. But the universe hates me, and the weather sucks, which is why I’m here bugging you guys.”

“You’re not bugging us,” Chris says. “We're enjoying your company.”

“And you felt your mate, so that's something,” Peter says and Stiles has to fight to drag his attention away from the blue of Peter’s eyes and the flex of his forearms and concentrate on what he’s saying.

“Yeah, I guess. Would have been nice to find them after all this, though.”

“Well, there’s still time,” Peter says, somewhat cryptically.

“What do you do, Stiles?” Chris interrupts.

“Oh, I’m a cop. I moved back to town last month, and now I work with my dad. He’s the sheriff.”

“I do love a man in uniform,” Peter purrs. Stiles’s cheeks burn at the blatant flirting, and he’s not surprised when Peter yelps and then leans down and rubs his ankle, glaring at Chris.

Chris ignores him. “Perhaps that’s why there’s been no sign of your mate so far, because you’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Maybe.” Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it, his disappointment too raw. In an effort to change the subject he says, “I should try calling my dad, see if he can come get me.”

Chris tilts his head for a second, listening, before saying, “We have a landline, so you're welcome to call him, but you won't be going anywhere tonight.” Stiles’s heart stutters, and he’s just about to ask what Chris means when there’s the flash of lightning through the window, a roll of thunder, and the sound of the rain on the roof gets louder, the water pounding relentlessly. Chris nods in the direction of the window. “Rain like this, the creek will have flooded the road by now. Looks like you’re stuck here with us for the night.”

“It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other better,” Peter says, eyebrows raised, “and I’m sure we can find a way to entertain ourselves, and somewhere cozy for you to sleep.”

Stiles swallows at the thought of being trapped here overnight. His eyes keep roaming over Peter and Chris against his will, and when he looks at Peter he sees everything he didn’t know he wanted and can’t ever have. A wave of searing lust washes through him and he whimpers, fighting the urge to climb into Peter’s lap and bare his throat.

Looking at Chris, it's no better—Stiles _wants_ him, there’s no point denying it. He wants to see what that handsome face looks like when Chris comes, wants to know if his cock’s as long and lean as the rest of him, is desperate to get his hands and mouth on it, on _him,_ to feel those hands on his bare skin, and— _woah._

He pushes his chair back abruptly enough that it clatters to the floor and he takes a rapid step back. His heart’s hammering in his chest, and even while he’s backing away from the table, his body is fighting him. He’s genuinely afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t manage to put some distance between himself and the couple in front of him, and Stiles doesn't think he could live with himself if anything _did_ happen. “I—I can’t stay here,” he stammers out. “I’ll sleep in the jeep.”

“Why can’t you stay, Stiles?” Peter asks, eyes fixed on him like he’s prey. “Is it because you’re attracted to us?”

Damn Peter and his werewolf senses.

Stiles nods, cheeks flaming. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I just—I _want_ you, both of you, so it’s better to leave before I do something stupid and Peter rips my throat out with his teeth.”

It’s Chris who stands, taking a careful step towards him. “Stiles,” he says quietly, “It's okay."

"It's not okay! How can it _possibly_ be okay?" He waves his arms to indicate just how _not okay_ this whole thing is.

"Tell me Stiles, what’s your soul bond doing right now?” Chris asks, extending a hand and taking another cautious step, like he thinks Stiles is about to bolt. Perhaps he is. “Close your eyes and concentrate for me,” Chris says lowly. “Tell me what you feel.”

“I— I don’t know!” Stiles says, panicking, because he wants nothing more than to lean in closer so Chris can touch him, and it’s taking everything in him to resist. But he takes a breath and does what Chris asks, and as soon as he closes his eyes and focuses, the pull in his gut that never really went away flares to life, brilliant and overwhelming, and Stiles finds himself frozen in place.

Chris takes a final step forward and cups a hand against Stiles’s cheek, and at the skin-to-skin contact, he suddenly _does_ know, the truth breaking over him like a wave at the same time as his wrist starts to tingle and burn.

His eyes widen and he stares at Chris, mouth hanging open. “It’s you,” he says faintly.

“No, sweetheart. It’s _us,_ ” Peter corrects, and then those hips are swaying sinuously as he prowls over to stand next to Chris. He reaches out and runs a hand down the side of Stiles’s throat, his palm finally resting against Stiles's collarbone, hot and solid and perfect. Stiles’s other wrist flares with heat, making him hiss between his teeth.

He’s a mess of whirling, churning emotion—disbelief, elation, shock, and desire all scrambling for attention, but the main thing he feels is relief that he isn't going crazy, that he's allowed to want them after all—is _supposed_ to want them, even.

“I’m—I'm your _third_ ,” he says breathlessly. It’s uncommon, something Stiles hadn’t even considered as a possibility, but suddenly his immediate and unrelenting attraction to them makes perfect sense.

“Yes,” Peter and Chris say in unison. They exchange a pleased look and both lean in and kiss him, one on each cheek, which is when it hits home with the force of a blunt object. He’s _theirs._ More importantly, they’re _his._

And they want him too.

Stiles can feel his mouth curving up into a ridiculous smile, one that makes his cheeks ache, and then Peter’s nuzzling his throat and Chris is kissing him, properly this time, and Stiles melts into their arms, a boneless heap.

Well, mostly boneless.

Chris slides a hand down his back and pulls him in close, and Stiles can feel the hot line of Chris’s cock pressing against him through his jeans, making him aware of the throb of his own erection. “Damn, baby, see what you do to me?” Chris murmurs.

“Skin skin skin skin,” Peter chants, and then there’s a flash of claw and a tearing sound, and Stiles finds himself shirtless, Peter’s hands roaming over his body, touching, claiming.

He thinks faintly that they should probably sit down and talk, because he has questions, _so many_ questions, but then Peter’s crowding Chris out of the way and when he kisses Stiles it’s deep, desperate, _primal_ , and Stiles decides that talking can wait until after they’ve made out for, say, the rest of the night.

* * *

They don’t _actually_ make out all night, but only because Stiles’s stomach growls and it turns out both his mates—he has _mates!_ —are giant mother hen types who fuss and grumble over him being hungry, so to keep them happy he ends up sprawled across Chris’s lap in a kitchen chair while Peter feeds him his now cold steak and Chris runs his hands up and down his naked back.

Once he’s eaten enough to satisfy them, Chris takes him by one hand and Peter by the other, and they both press a kiss to his soul marks, still tender and new—he has a pawprint for Peter and a celtic knot for Chris. They both have a new mark for him as well—a lightning bolt—which, considering how he found them, is appropriate.

Peter continues to kiss his way up Stiles’s forearm, making Stiles shiver with delight. He doesn’t think they’ve stopped touching him once since the initial contact, and it makes Stiles feel precious; desired and valuable right down to the depths of his soul, exactly the way he's always dreamed of. He can’t stop grinning.

“Knew you were out there,” Chris mumbles around a mouthful of collarbone kisses. “Knew we had a third. Been waiting to throw that seeking spell for years, but you were too far away before now.”

Stiles pulls back. “Wait, you used magic? I didn't even know that was allowed.” Not that he minds if Chris bent the rules a little, because so far it's working out pretty great. In fact, he fully intends to go right back to what they were doing—namely, lots more touching—once he's satisfied his curiosity.

Chris lifts his head and gives Stiles that dazzling smile. “Uh huh. I could feel you on the breeze, baby. Knew you were close by. So I just gave nature a helping hand. We didn't wanna wait.”

“Did I mention that Christopher's an exceptionally talented druid?” Peter says, before bodily lifting Stiles out of Chris’s lap and dragging him into his own and kissing Stiles thoroughly.

Stiles goes with it, because Peter’s an even better kisser than Stiles imagined, and it’s easy to get lost in the warmth of his mouth and the heat and strength of his hands as he holds Stiles in place with one hand on his ass and one on his hip, but eventually Stiles breaks the kiss, panting slightly, long enough to ask, “So if you knew, why not say so right away? I thought I was going crazy.”

Chris ducks his head and Peter looks triumphant. “Because Chris had the idea that if we told you out of the blue it would be too much of a shock and that we should ease you into the idea of being a third. Whereas I was of the opinion that if you were feeling the bond as strongly as we were, you needed to know so your attraction to us wouldn’t confuse you. As usual, I was right.”

“Did I mention Peter’s an asshole?” Chris grumbles. He reaches out to try and haul Stiles back onto his lap, but Stiles shimmies out of Peter’s grip, standing just out of reach and ignoring Peter's pout.

“Nope. No more. As much—and I cannot emphasize this enough—as I _fucking love_ being manhandled by you two, maybe instead of playing musical laps, we could go somewhere with room for all of us? And a bed? And then maybe we could get naked and someone could touch my dick? Because frankly, I think you’ve both teased me enough and I've heard soulmate sex is awesome, so we should get on that.”

He hopes he isn’t being too forward.

Peter lets out a growl and scoops him up and throws him over his shoulder, then strides down the hallway to the bedroom. Chris scrambles after them while hopping to get out of his jeans.

So, _not_ too forward, then.

* * *

His dick does get touched—a _lot_. He gets sexed up many different times in many different positions, and he discovers that the stories are true and soul mate sex absolutely is fucking awesome. And when they finally climb out of bed around noon the next day and go rescue his jeep, it turns out he was right about something else.

Chris’s ass does look damn fine bent over the hood.


End file.
